


Spring Festival

by Jubalii



Series: A Year's Worth [4]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series, Layton Kyouju vs Gyakuten Saiban | Professor Layton vs. Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney, 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, April Submission for AYW, F/M, Festivals, Fluff, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Troubled Past, possible triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-21 23:53:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10685484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: Eve is anxious about dressing up for the annual Spring Festival, but a visitor to Labyrinthia quickly makes her forget her troubles as she learns a little more about Sir Barnham's past.





	Spring Festival

"Espella, I cannot go out looking like this!" What was she thinking, to allow Espella to dress her? A veritable stranger stared back at her from the looking glass, blushing heavily. _I can't go out in public this way!_ She repeatedly wailed internally, unable to look away from the train wreck that was her outfit.

"What do you mean? Espella laughed, looping a leather belt around her thin waist and cinching the loose fabric of the new dress. It hung rather like her normal dress, only it was made of a fine red cloth that draped in elegant folds along her frame and hung from her elbows. Her hair was loose, the wavy locks spread across her shoulders except for two thin braids crowning her head and pinned neatly at each temple. Red Eldwitch blossoms, their wiry stems pressed into the plaits, formed a floral diadem. She looked like a goddess, even without the translucent powder she'd dusted over her cheeks.

"M-My shoulders are _bared_!" Not to mention the fact that the hem cut neatly beneath her collarbone and showed far too much cleavage, or that her shoulder blades were on display, or that the navy pleats of the dress cut above her knees and let anyone glimpse a hint of her thigh whenever she moved! It was cut in the middle by a band of white fabric that pressed tightly against her, making her curves seem curvier and her stomach even flatter than it already was. She wanted to leave her hair down if she was forced—by politeness' sake, if nothing else—to wear such a dress, but Espella had plaited it into a loose braid, tied with a white ribbon. To make matters _worse_ , she'd stuck a circlet of fern leaves and pale rosebuds on her head to hold back her bangs, two white water lilies tucked behind her right ear. And somehow Espella had managed to force some dark lipstick onto her, as nothing would do but that she have some sort of makeup.

It would have looked fine on someone else, but the longer she stared at her reflection the more she was _absolutely_ _certain_ that she couldn't go out dressed this way.

Especially not to something as significant as the Spring Festival, where the whole town would be there to gawk at her knobby knees and pale shoulders, made even paler by the dark blue of the fabric. And this year, the festival had become somewhat of a tourist attraction. This meant that strangers would be swarming the grounds, taking in the sights of a 'real medieval festival' and seeing her in all her… glory.

In the past, it was the whim of the Storyteller to announce the Spring Festival and write it into that year's Story. But Eve knew that he'd just waited on the weather forecast, since the Festival was one of the few moveable holidays in Labyrinthia. It was always on the first warm, sunny weekend in town, and this year it fell in mid-April, well after everything was fully bloomed and beautiful. The whole town had been preparing all week for the festival, tuning instruments and decorating the Square. While she'd been just as excited as everyone else for the sunny picnics, music, and laughter of the crowds, now she wanted nothing more than to stay and hide beneath her Great Witch mask in the safety of her own bedroom.

"So?" Espella asked, seeing nothing wrong with exposed blades. "You look beautiful, Eve. Trust me. No one's going to think anything less."

"I look silly," Eve snapped, trying to both tug down the hem at her legs and shove it back up at her breast. Neither worked, as the tight band around her middle kept the fabric from moving up or down her body. "No one dresses like this. All this flimsy cloth and… and why do _I_ have to wear these flowers?"

" _All_ the girls dress like this. Kira's made more profit for her boss this week alone than she has all last summer; she told me so herself." Eve fidgeted in place, fingers dancing at her collarbone. It was true that many people wore flowers at the Spring Festival, either in their hair or on their clothes in some way. She hadn't, as she'd always opted for her best High Inquisitor uniform while she stood in a place of honor with the Storyteller. Last year she'd had a cold and had missed the festival, so this was her first year going not as High Inquisitor Darklaw, but instead as Eve Belduke. Plain, awkward Eve, who spoke without thinking and was overly dramatic at the worst of times. Who worked herself to death in the Courthouse offices. Who was too shy to go in front of a crowd without being dressed in an old lawyer outfit.

Who couldn't bear to be laughed at for trying to fit in with the others.

" _I_ don't," she muttered, knowing that Espella wouldn't listen. She was her best friend, but she was also stubborn and just a little bossy at times. Eve knew, deep down, that Espella was trying to get her to join the rest of the townsfolk and partake in the happy times she'd only recently been privy to herself. But it had been over two years, and she had already decided that if it was meant to happen, it would have already happened.

"There's no reason you can't try." Espella's hands rested lightly on her shoulders and she shivered at the contact, not used to that place being a skin-to-skin location. "Eve, don't you think that you're nervous only because you've never been a participant in the festival before?" It was true, she was the Storyteller's guard, not an active patron in the festivities. "It'll be okay. I'll be by your side every minute if you want me to. And besides, you've got a boyfriend to dress up for now."

"I-I do?" Espella blinked before throwing her hands in the air.

"Sir Barnham?!" she offered, shaking her head. "You're his sweetheart, aren't you?"

"Am I?" Espella shook her head with a sound of disappointment. "I mean, I suppose that I am, but we've only went out once or twice…."

"And?" Eve felt everything from her ears to her toes burning with shame.

"And… isn't that too early to call someone your… boyfriend?"

"Eve Belduke, you're so—" her mouth worked as she thought for the right word, " _modest_!" She wrapped her arms around her from behind, resting her chin on her shoulder. "Can I tell you something?"

"Yes?"

"I think, now that you're his _girlfriend_ ," she emphasized," that I can tell you what he told me with a clear conscience. I couldn't tell you in the bell tower before his birthday because I didn't know if that would be the right thing to do, but I can tell you now."

"W-what?"

"Sir Barnham told me that he thought you were the most beautiful woman in all of town."

"H-he did?!" Her face was the same color as Espella's flowers, but the younger woman didn't seem to notice. _Even back then, he said that? About me?_ He'd admitted himself that he'd only used the New Year as an excuse to kiss her, but she wouldn't have guessed that he'd compliment her to anyone.

"He really did. He had come up to ask me if you had your eye on anyone in town. ""To tell truth, I think that Miss Eve is the most comely woman I've ever seen; certainly she's the most elegant and attractive woman in all of Labyrinthia." That's exactly what he said when I asked him why he wanted to know."

"B-but why would he—"

"Ask me?" she interrupted. "Because I'd know. I knew you liked him, after all. But I didn't tell him that; I thought it would be just as bad as telling you that he liked you. I decided that I wouldn't step in unless you were both miserable about it; I really thought you'd figure it out after he gave you your birthday present." She blushed as well. "I didn't know you didn't see his true motives right then, or I'd have said something to you later. I just thought you were playing coy."

"I'd never!"

"You should!" Eve winced as Espella's voice rang in her ear. "Kira says that—"

"You listen far too much to what Kira has to say. She tried to have you killed, you know."

"That was then, this is now. And Kira says that men like it when you flirt with them in that manner. She's had four beaus, you know."

"If she's had four, that must mean she either can't keep them or is picking the wrong sort of men." Espella blinked in surprise.

"Well, I suppose you don't need to reel him in anyway," she stated after a moment's thought. "You've already _got_ him. And he's not wrong; you really are elegant and attractive, and now everyone can see it in that dress," she declared with a nod. "So let's go show him how lucky he really is!"

"Espella… it's wrong to think that way."

* * *

As they walked through the archway into the Square Espella grabbed her arm and gasped, her eyes twinkling as she gaped in every direction. Eve, too, was rather surprised at the apparent gusto that went into this year's décor. The Square had been transformed into a sort of botanical garden, with large displays of every flower imaginable. Roses, chrysanthemums, buttercups, lilies, violets, peonies: all and more had their turn at some point around the grassy common. Garlands adorned the rails around the bell tower's balconies, makeshift window boxes on the surrounding walls spilled with ivy and bloom, the cobblestones were scattered with thousands of petals borne by the soft breeze whispering from the ocean.

The hastily erected wooden platform, where the Storyteller had always sat in Festivals past, was covered with fresh bouquets that climbed the torch poles and made the platform look more like a parade float. The Storyteller wasn't there, but he would give the speech from there in the evening. Before it, bands played familiar tunes as people passed by, dropping coins into their outstretched hats and tambourines. Minstrels swung from crowd to crowd, making up rhymes that caused laughter and groaning alike. Butterflies and bees alit from display to display, fluttering and buzzing as ladybugs crawled up the sides of the white-peaked tents where food and drink was being served. Far above it all, birds whistled and chirped to each other in the eves of the tower, hopping along the railing to pick at insects in the petals.

"Come on, Eve! Let's go!" Espella urged, nearly dragging her out of her sandals as they sped over the cobblestones. Eve's palm sweated as she felt the sun on her bare shoulders, the breeze brushing her unclothed knees, her lips strange with the unfamiliar weight of lipstick and the flower petals tickling her ear. She wasn't sure what she would do once they actually began mingling. What if they all stared? What if they began _whispering_? It was only Espella's tight grip on her hand that kept her from turning tail and going straight back home, no matter how florally bedecked she saw the others around her.

Townsfolk grouped together, laughing among friends and gesticulating as they spoke, their eyes squinting against the bright sunshine. Children ran between the groups with boundless energy, laughing and squealing as they played simple games and tore flowers from the displays for their dolls' hair. Amidst them all were the tourists, snapping pictures, ooh-aahing at the displays, purchasing blossoms from the money-conscious flower seller and his cronies, or being served from beneath the white tents whilst trying to juggle the cameras and kids and flowers in their possession.

"E-Espella!" After nearly tripping twice, she finally shook her hand free and stood of her own volition, breathing heavily as she brushed loose hair behind her ear and back into the braid. "Slow down, we have all day!"

"Don't drag her over country and kingdom, Espella." They looked up to see the girl's father approaching them, hand raised in welcome. He was dressed casually, the sleeves of his white dressed shirt rolled to his elbows. "I'd ask what took the two of you so long to show up, but I can see for myself that it was time well spent," he said approvingly as he looked over their outfits. "You two rival the flowers in beauty, I believe."

"Oh, Dad," Espella scoffed, the powder only allowing her cheeks to glow the faintest pink. She took a flower from her crown and pushed it into the buttonhole of his shirt, smoothing the red petals. "There. You have to look a little festive as well, you know."

"If you say so," he hummed good-naturedly, patting the flower to make sure it would stay put. "We certainly have a good turnout this year; I'd hate to make a mockery of myself by not looking the part of the town's founder." He looked Eve over as well, his expression falling until he looked more like the tired old man he was.

"W-what?" she asked, trying once more to adjust the hem. Did he not approve of her outfit for some reason? She glanced around, noticing some of the tourists looking at them with interest. _This is idiotic, I might as well have made a complete fool of myself with the way everyone's staring._ They might have been looking at the Storyteller or Espella as well as her, but she felt as if their eyes bored straight into her with judgmental contempt. She wrapped her arms around herself, forcing herself to pay attention to him as he spoke.

"It's just… I wish that Newton could see you now. He was always so proud of you, saying how lovely you were. If only he could be here now, when he could have shared that pride with the town instead of having to hide it," he said with a sad chuckle. "If I had only known," he added, for what felt like the thousandth time, though Eve knew the words hurt him as much as when he'd said them aloud the first. "If I'd only known, and been able to get him the help he needed before it was too late." Espella frowned, her shoulders hunched as she wrapped an arm around her father's waist, resting her head against his shoulder comfortingly.

"D-don't." Eve took a deep breath. "Father wouldn't want you—us—to be sad. Not on such a happy occasion." She felt a pang of grief and took a breath, allowing herself to feel it and accept it instead of pushing it aside. "He'd say that the Spring Festival is a time to celebrate beginnings, instead of ends."

"You're right," Mr. Cantabella admitted. "As you always are. Newton would say that I was being a sentimental old fool when I should be enjoying this day." They were all silent a moment, making the squelch from the man's stomach sound all the louder.

"Dad!" Espella laughed, pulling away. "Are you hungry?"

"Well, I suppose I _am_ a bit peckish, even for midmorning."

"Then let's go get something to eat! I haven't had breakfast yet, either." She turned to Eve, "Do you want to come with us?" She was about to agree, if only for the company rather than actually wanting something to eat, when she saw Barnham weaving his way across the common. He scanned the crowds, his brow wrinkled until he spotted Espella sticking out like a sore thumb with her red clothes. He smiled amicably at her, his hand coming up in a wave of greeting as his eyes passed over the Storyteller and then settled on Eve. Espella and her father grinned as his expression faltered into one of shock, glancing at each other and speaking silently through their eyes.

"We'll leave you two to chat," Mr. Cantabella said with a nod, grabbing Espella's hand. "I'm sure we'll all meet up later."

"See you, Eve!" Espella called over her shoulder as she allowed her father to half-carry, half-drag her along.

"E-Espella!" Abandoned, stuck to the cobblestone like a stubborn stain by her nervousness, she watched her best friend's wicked smile get lost behind the multitudes swarming around a display of evergreen boughs and hyacinths. How dare they just leave her like this! _Perhaps Espella doesn't get all her mischievous mannerisms from Mrs. Eclaire after all._ Color flooded her cheeks as she planned a quick vengeance; it was warm enough that perhaps Espella could slip and take a little fall into the lake when she came to visit next week….

"Mi-M-Mm… Eve?"

"Zacharias." She forced herself to turn back around and face him, clasping her hands behind her back to keep from fidgeting and plastering her 'everything is fine' smile on her lips for good measure. "I-I don't know where they went," she muttered, nodding her head at where the Cantabellas had slipped off. "T-they, um, said something about food…." Suddenly, all topics were gone from her mind and she was left with awkward silence.

"'Tis fine." He shifted, shoving his hands down his pockets anxiously. "You, erm… what a pleasant day this is." He looked up at the sky, focusing intently on nothing but the endless blue.

"A fine day," she agreed hesitantly. At least he was doing a little better than her at making conversation.

"One couldn't pick a better day for a festival." _Trying to do better, and failing_. She bit back a sigh, picking at her cuticles while her hands were still safely out of sight. It was the same as this on the two dates they'd been on, until the topic ultimately turned to either work or their friends. _Why must I be so nervous around him? Furthermore, why must_ _ **he**_ _be so nervous around me? It was never like this when we were hunting witches._ They had chemistry; otherwise she would have never accepted the second date. But could two people have chemistry, and yet nothing to talk about?

"Yes. And the flowers look nice as well."

"Very nice. I heard the flower seller had his employees working overtime." Another pause, and she stared at the hyacinths. If magic were real, she would have opted for a spell that made it impossible to be so awkward around others. "You, erm…" he tried again, his sandal catching at the cobblestones and scuffing the edges as he toed them. "You look… what manner of flowers are those?" he asked suddenly, pointing at her ear.

"W-water lilies."

"Oh. Yes, of course." He cleared his throat. "D-do you _like_ water lilies?"

"They're… actually my favorite flower." She fingered the petals of the outermost one. "But Espella was the one to suggest that I wear them in my hair. I don't normally—I didn't want to—what are your favorite flowers?" She instantly cringed. _Why would you ask a man what his favorite flower was? He probably never even notices them, he—_

"Gladioli."

"Excuse me?" He looked briefly at her, then away.

"Gladioli," he repeated. "When I was young, I read that the gladiolus represents strength and moral integrity. Because they're shaped like swords, in a way." His hands made a vague shape in the air. "And also… infatuation," he added in a low tone.

"Infatuation?" He nodded.

"You give them to the one who has pierced your heart with passion." He blushed. "If I were to propose to someone, I'd give them gladioli instead of roses… I think 'twould make my intention all the clearer."

"What do water lilies mean?" He looked at her in surprise.

"I-I don't know." His cheeks darkened further as his eyes darted to her ear once more. "The only reason I knew that was because I was trying to find out what sort of flowers you gave someone to make them well after an illness." Again he looked away, scratching his head. "Chrysanthemums…. A-anyway, the librarian lent me a book on flowers and their meanings. I don't remember much of it, I'm afraid."

"Did they work?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The chrysanthemums. Did they work?"

"Oh." The smile slipped from his face. "I couldn't actually afford any—I was very young—so I traced the picture from the book onto some paper and brought that instead. I suppose… I suppose it only works if one has real flowers."

"O-oh." She felt a sinking sensation in her stomach and reached out without thinking, putting a hand on his forearm. A part of her wished she was as easygoing as Espella, and could have embraced him with her head on his shoulder in the middle of the crowd. He looked at her hand, placing his own over it; it surrounded hers, warm and roughened with years of work. He laughed gruffly, the sound harsh.

"It sounds stupid, don't you think?" His jaw tightened. "Bringing some foolish drawing into a hospital with the thought that it would help more than medicaments."

"I think it sounds sweet." She stepped closer, allowing her fingers to caress his arm. "It seems as though it was a thoughtful idea, no matter how it had to be carried out."

"Hmm. Well." He cleared his throat again, this time actually needing to instead of doing it to break a silence. "What I meant to say earlier was... that you look… that they suit you. The flowers." His hand left hers and moved carefully to the lilies, securing them behind her ear before stroking the hair at her temple, his eyes watching her face for any sign of discomfort. "No matter their meaning."

"Thank you." She leaned into the touch, a shiver working down her spine. "I-I'm glad you like them."

" _Ooh_ , Zacky-wacky's got 'imself a lady friend!" The warmth in his face abruptly left, replaced by something she could only describe as exasperation, though it seemed to run far deeper than the word implied.

"Get me a chair, someone! I'm _floored_!"

"Just who is Zacky-boy's little turtledove, hmm?" Despite being singled out, she felt less mortified than she thought she would be. Perhaps it was because the mockery was pointed directly at him, rather than her? She looked around his chest to see a few familiar faces from the seedy alleys surrounding the black market. The kind that turned tail the minute they saw the High Inquisitor coming, rather than face an evening the dungeons. She knew them to frequent the tavern as well, though they were always more afraid of Rouge than they ever were of her. Still….

"Me," she retorted, in her best Darklaw tone. The laughter dried up faster than she imagined, their faces going from open jeering to surprise to fear in the span of a blink.

"M-Milady!" One of them, Briggs or Muggs—they were always together, but she could never remember which was which—paled and shuffled behind the others. Clearly _he_ still remembered the Shade pecking order. She singled him out, stepping around Barnham and tilting her head back enough to peer down her nose at him.

"Is there a problem here?" she asked, eyeing them all and making them squirm in their boots.

"N-no."

"No ma'am."

"N-not at all, milady." She glared, pointing one finger menacingly at a gap in the crowd.

"Leave." They were gone before her hand fell back to her side. "Honestly," she huffed in another tone altogether, rubbing her forehead. "The sort of people you hang out with. Aren't they regulars at the tavern?" She turned to see him fighting back laughter, shoulders shaking with the exertion. "What?"

"Their faces!" he finally exclaimed, laughing heartily. "When you said—and then—" He couldn't speak for a moment, wiping his eyes and trying to get under control. "Eve, you're amazing." The compliment took her by surprise.

"Thank you… Zacky."

"Don't call me that," he ordered, mouth twisting. "'Tis… unbecoming."

"Sir Baker?"

"Even worse!" She grinned.

"Sir _Apprentice_ Baker."

"You wish for my ridicule?!"

"Naturally, Bouncing—" He stopped her before she could finish, his thumb running across her lips and keeping them closed. It was more surprise than anything else that had her silent, the sensation not at all unpleasant. He took it as an invitation to speak.

"You may call me as you like," he murmured, leaning in, "but not in the midst of the street." She waited until he moved his hand before answering.

"For your sake, I'll save it. I'd hate to give those fools more fodder against you." He laughed, letting it trail off naturally as he looked down at her. The warmth crept back into his eyes and she allowed herself to bask in it, just for the moment. It wouldn't do to allow him more sway over than he already had.

"It's nice to—even though I know you're just teasing me, it's nice to be able to laugh with you." The moment he said it, she realized that he was right. They didn't often say things that ended up in laughter. Normally it was more serious working conversations, or quieter moments. It _was_ nice to be able to let go a little. His fingers brushed against her hair once more, pushing it and baring her shoulder. She couldn't bring herself to stop him, tongue whetting her lips as she felt the prickling heat left behind by his slow advances. "Eve, I—"

"Sir Barnham!" He sighed, his eyes turning towards the heavens before rolling towards the silver-clad figure.

" _Ye-es_?" he drawled, voice tight. "Good morrow, captain."

"Pardon the intrusion," the Captain replied, saluting before rubbing his broad nose. "But there's a man here to see you."

"He can wait." He turned back to Eve, his hand still hovering above her shoulder. She stepped back politely, feeling the captain of the guard eyeing her. What was happening to her? Just moments before, it had felt as if it were just the two of them alone in the Square, despite the bodies pressing around them. Anyone could have seen whatever she'd allowed him to do, had they not been interrupted. She was torn between the relief that they _had_ been broken up, and the curiosity of how far he might have gotten with her otherwise.

"But Sir, he spoke to the Storyteller, who sent a small platoon to search for you. I think 'tis important." This made them both turn.

"I have no prior engagement," he said sharply, a hint of confusion lacing the words. "Who is he? Did he state his business?"

"Not of Labyrinthian origin, I think. He's dressed as an outsider. As I said, he spoke to the Storyteller and he considered it of grave importance that you be found. I know no more than this."

"I—thank you. I'll see to it." He dismissed the captain with a practiced wave of his hand. "Who on earth might it be?" he asked her once he had gone.

"I'm not sure. I can only think that it may be someone from Labrellum, but why would he need to see you specifically?" Eve thought it over, her brain offering no answers. "Of course, it's probably nothing," she assured him. "Maybe Mr. Cantabella knows him personally and promised to let him see you. It might be a fan of yours."

"There's only one way to find out." He grabbed her hand, leading her in the same manner as Espella, but less forcefully. "Let's go see." After a moment, he let her go and turned sheepishly. "Unless, that is, you have someone else to—I shouldn't take up all of your time today," he admitted. "Even if…."

"Let's go," she insisted, offering her hand voluntarily. He took it lightly, glancing around furtively before yanking her towards him. She gasped as he caught her, lips brushing her cheek. She stumbled back, pushing him away instinctively and finding that she couldn't go far with his iron grip around her fingers.

"Forgive me, but luck has forced me to be quick," he muttered in her ear. "I won't be thwarted thrice in the span of a single morning." She put as much space between them as possible, trying to appear scolding.

"You could have simply _asked_ me, you know."

"I could, but 'tis more fun to catch you unawares." He changed his grasp, linking his fingers through hers. "You blush and I find it… cute."

"I am not cute!" she sputtered, nearly falling as he turned and led her through the Square once more.

* * *

They found the Storyteller with Espella and Mrs. Eclaire, standing near the water fountain and eating. It was easy to pick out the stranger amongst them, dressed in a formal black business suit and staring with impatience at his watch. His dark hair was slicked back, the faintest lines around his eyes visible by the magnification of his oval spectacles. When he saw them approaching, the Storyteller gave Espella his plate and wiped his hands on his kerchief, stuffing it back in his pocket before raising a hand and addressing them.

"I'm glad you found us, Zacharias. There's someone here who needs to speak with you." He looked at the man. "This is Mr. Hastings of—"

"Excuse me, but I'll introduce myself." The man stepped forward and offered a hand. Barnham let go of her long enough to shake it, the same hand finding purchase on the small of her back. She felt the heat through the band of ribbon around her middle and pressed into it, finding a strange comfort in its placement. "I am Mr. Robert Hastings of Smith, Hastings, & Williamson. We are a law firm in South London that handles a variety of cases. My card." He dug in his breast pocket and produced a business card, which Barnham took with his other hand and stared at blankly. Eve took it from him and eyed the professionally glossed letters on the card, wracking her mind for any familiarity. She couldn't remember any law firm by that name handling Labrellum affairs…. The man looked at Eve during the pause, decided something, and looked away.

"I do hate to work during the weekends, but I've traveled a long way to get here and I nearly missed the boat leaving the mainland. I've got no choice but to catch a connecting one; shall we move to an office or… private space?" he asked, looking around at the crowds.

"You can use the Audience Room, if you like." Barnham's hand pressed more firmly into her back and she fought the urge to look at him.

"No, 'tis fine. If you're in a hurry, you can tell me here." He nodded to the man. "I'd hate for you to miss your boat."

"A-are you sure?" The lawyer's brow scrunched. "It seems very… open."

"'Tis fine," he repeated. "What business do you have with me, Sir— _Mr._ Hastings?" His eyes moved between him and the Storyteller, who looked about as puzzled as the rest of them. Espella scooted closer to the baker, pretending to engage her in conversation to keep from being seen as eavesdroppers.

"Well, if you're entirely certain." He turned to the low wall behind him, which ran abreast of the fountain and helped to section the alleyway from the Square. There, he had a small briefcase, which he opened. Rustling the papers, he found what he wanted and pulled out a stapled booklet of sheets. He read them over with pursed lips and then sighed.

"I don't even know what surname to use, but since you've legally changed yours I suppose it doesn't matter." He looked back at them, pushing the oval lenses up his nose. It was shiny with grease, and she wondered if the suit was hot on him. "It is my sad duty to inform you of the passing of one Mr. Edward of Candlewood Place, London." _Mr. Edward?_ She had no idea what that meant, but she felt his fingers dig painfully into her back and bit her tongue to keep from crying out. "Known colloquially as 'Norfolk Eddie', along with a slew of various aliases and surnames that span…" he looked, "two pages, front and back." A brow arched, but he shook his head. "My, my."

"Passing?" Eve asked, guessing his meaning. "As in his death."

"Precisely, ma'am. I am the probate lawyer for his case." She looked up at Barnham, intending to ask if he knew this Edward, but the words flew from her mind as she saw his jaw tensed, eyes blazing with an emotion she'd never seen from him before.

"How did you find me here." He swallowed hard, his voice restrained. "Who told you I was here." They sounded far more accusing than mere questions, and the lawyer stiffened with unease, his eyes flitting to the Storyteller and back.

"It wasn't easy," he admitted, shifting and adjusting his cuff over his wristwatch. "It took me nearly two weeks to track down your last place of residency. The landlord told me your debt was paid off by a Labrellum Inc. I had to issue a warrant to gain access to your file, and even then I had no way of knowing if you were still here now that their experimental phase was finished." He sniffed. "I took a chance anyway, with the hopes that someone would know where you'd gone, if you weren't to be found."

"That was a lot of trouble to track me down." Eve was startled as his stance changed, shoulders rising and eyes narrowing. "What, did he owe you money?" he guessed callously. "If so, you may as well return home; you'll get nothing from me."

"No, no. What little he had in the bank covered his… _legal_ debts," the lawyer admitted, pulling a kerchief from his pocket and mopping his brow. "Though I've had to explain to a few localized individuals that any under-the-table dealings aren't covered by liability."

"Then _what_?" He shrugged his shoulders. "If you just came to tell me, you could have sent a letter. I'd written him off as dead years ago."

"No, you don't understand." Mr. Hastings flipped through the pages. "According to the hospital where he passed, you were declared lasting power of attorney while he was still alive. Now that he's deceased, of course, you are the sole charge of his possessions. I'm afraid there's nothing in cash form, but there are still the belongings inside the flat and—"

"I don't want them," he interrupted. "Now go away."

"E-excuse me?"

"Zacharias," the Storyteller admonished gently.

"I. Don't. _Want_. Them." His hand fisted at her back. "I don't want anything to do with it."

"Norfo—Mr. Edward died intestate: that is, without a will. However, thanks to the newer law system," here he made a face, as though disapproving of said system, "you _are_ the sole charge. That is what the officials decided when devising England's intestate clauses. I have no control over it."

"And?"

" _And_ thanks to these laws, our firm has already filed a Declaration of Small Estate for you. It's clear on first glance that his assets are far less than £100,000. His parents are gone, as well as his listed wife. You are all that's left, I'm afraid, which means we hold you legally responsible."

"I haven't—"

"You weren't disinherited," Mr. Hastings cut in impatiently. "This means you are all that's left. Whether you like or not, Mr. Barnham, this inheritance is _yours_." _Disinherited… that means they're talking about his—_ Eve looked from the lawyer to him again, startled at the redness rising to his cheeks. She could sense the explosion brewing beneath his skin; she'd been on the receiving end of it often enough to know that his temper had a breaking point, and he was very close to reaching it.

"I said I want _nothing to do with it_ ," he growled. Mr. Hastings shook his head.

"But as his son, don't you think you owe it—"

" _I am_ _ **not**_ _his son!_ " Eve winced as the words rang in her ear, knowing that she ought to have moved before the inevitable. The conversations around them ceased, all eyes turning towards the unfolding scene. " _Burn_ the shit for all I care! Burn him too, while you're at it! Drop it all in the sewer and forget about a proper burial; the bastard doesn't deserve one!"

"I say!" Backed against the wall by his roaring, the lawyer peered at him over his lenses. "This is your father we're speaking of!"

"He was _never_ my father." He face rivaled his hair in color, his chest heaving. "I am _not his son_." Espella was staring at him with wide eyes, her mouth agape. Mrs. Eclaire had both hands clasped to her chest, gnawing at her lower lip with worry as she looked between the two of them.

"No matter what you think otherwise, biologically you are his child. In a legal standing, that's all that matters. You _have_ to come back to London and step foot in that flat."

"Zacharias!" Espella's father tried again, his hands held out pleadingly.

"I don't _care_ what the law says! I'm not going back; I'm never going back!" he shouted, his expression panicked. "That place is not mine, could never be mine. Labyrinthia is my home now. I can't go back… you can't make me go back!"

"We can! I can have you arrested for contempt to follow law. Labyrinthia is still a part of the UK, whether you like it or not!" Mr. Hastings drew himself up to his unimpressive full height. "If I must go get the police, I shall. But it will be far easier for you to come quietly."

"You can't make me leave!" He turned to the Storyteller. "Tell him! Tell him that he can't make me go back there!"

"I—"

"You made a promise! You made a promise to me; _I remember it_!" Eve stepped away, floored by the extent of the anger flooding from him, especially with it directed towards the man he still looked to as a sort of lord.

"Zacharias, you must understand—" He shook his head, pushing his hands as if he could physically keep the words away.

"I remember it, I remember everything!" He fought for breath, the hand that had been on her back now creeping towards his chest. She looked closely him, her heart skipping as she recognized the look on his face. This anger, it was the same as the screaming rage that came from accused witches on the stands time and time again. An emotion born of panic as well as the feeling that one was cornered with the army closing in fast and no way to escape. _He's frightened!_ She realized with a start. _He's so frightened...what's wrong?_

"I've read over those signed documents," Mr. Hastings declared. "They're only valid as long as the experiment is in progress. It has been ceased for over two years, has it not?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then I have full authority to bring in outside forces if I must." The lawyer turned back. "I hate to do that, but if you don't cooperate, you'll force my hand."

"You promised me that he wouldn't be able to _find_ me here, that if I signed those papers I could leave all of it _behind_. And now you're _going back_ on that?!" His fist swung out and slammed into the wall, causing a window box to slip from its nail. The flowers cascaded into the fountain, the sound of the twisting box against stone grating against her ears. Espella dropped both plates with a squeak of alarm, leaping to her feet. Eve didn't blame her; the sound of his flesh hitting the brick had been frightful.

"With a temper like that, there's no doubting your parentage!" the lawyer snapped. "If the landlord of Candlewood is to be believed, that is." Barnham's full body gave a solid jerk as his hand fell, bruises already starting to discolor his knuckles. A chorus of whispers came from the ring of onlookers that had formed around them at some point, Labyrinthians staring in concern while tourists leaned away warily. As if seeing them for the first time, he stared around wide-eyed; his body began to shake as he paled, still fighting for air.

"Sir Barnham!" Espella called out to him. He looked as if he were going to faint away at any moment, a green tinge replacing the red in his face. _Is he going to get sick?_ Eve took a step forward and he stumbled away from her. The crowd parted, mothers dragging their children out of the way. Rouge fought her way to the front, shoving aside Muffet as the teensy woman cowered beneath her parasol, her handkerchief pressed to her cheek.

"I—I can't—"

"Zacharias?" She stretched out her hand, palm up, silently pleading for him to come to her. His mouth quivered and he looked past her to the crowd, then at the lawyer.

"I—excuse me," he croaked, tugging at the collar of his shirt as he backed through the opening, looking more and more helpless as the people continued to avoid him, letting him through. He turned and ran, falling into the side of a display and knocking it over. He caught himself, regained his balance, and left the Square.

"Zacharias!" She ran a few steps before turning back. She felt Darklaw clawing savagely out of her breast and giving way to it entirely. How could he be so uncaring, to keep adding fuel to a fire like that?! Did he not see how much his words were upsetting him? A protective feeling rose within her, something that she couldn't quite explain and yet it felt almost _too_ natural. "How dare you!" she hissed, seeing eye to eye with the lawyer and yet somehow looming over him. "Who are you to speak to him that way?"

"Eve," the Storyteller murmured warningly, but went silent as she turned on him as well.

"And you! How could you not stand up for him? How could you just stand by and let him _do_ that to him?"

"Eve, you must understand." He reached for her. "The law is the law; there's nothing I can do about it. Please try to see where I'm coming from." She backed out of his reach, feeling Barnham's hurt as if it were her own, gnawing through her heart and settling in her churning stomach. It was just that she knew what it felt like, to be unheard, to have your opinions ignored and to be forced to do things that you didn't want to, to remember things that you had pushed back until they were so flimsy and transparent that they might have only been dreams. To be in such pain that the only relief was to run away from it. And to make it worse, one of the men to cause her such pain had just done the same to him.

"Eve—" She shook her head, ducking beneath his arm and evading his grasp as she followed Barnham's path out of the Square. "Eve!" he called after, and she heard Espella calling her name as well. She forced the sound from her mind, listening only to the pounding of her heels against the cobblestones as she rounded the corner.

 _I have to find him._ No one had ever come for her, every time she'd run off and ignored the truth. But she'd find him. Even if he spurned her, turned her away and refused to talk, at least he would know that _someone_ came after him.

She slid to a stop at the first intersection, looking in every direction for a sign of which way he'd turned. All the streets were abandoned, the only movement a loose flyer fluttering against the wall. _If I were Zacharias, where would I go?_ The answer came and she turned right, heading for the road to the garrison. It was as good a place to start as any, if he happened to not be there.

It seemed to take twice as long to reach the other side of town, even if she ran the whole way. There was a stitch in her side but she didn't dare stop for breath, afraid that someone might catch her and stop her before she could reach him. She was certain that no one _was_ following, but the fear was still there. She'd hate to have to fight them off of her.

The garrison gate was closed, and she caught her breath as she stared down at the moat. She could get across it, but the walls were thick and there wasn't anything she could do to lower the gate from the outside. She could call to him, but even if he heard her there was no guarantee he'd lower it for her. She was nearly certain that he _was_ in there; they stopped closing the gates when the knights stopped living there. Unless it was closed to keep out the tourists… not that there were any on this side of town. She wracked her brain, tapping her knuckles against her skull as she thought. _I've got to get in there, I've just_ _ **got**_ _to!_ Then she remembered the case of a girl being caught in the oak that grew next to the garrison, her skirts the only thing keeping her from falling to the ground and breaking her head open. Of course!

She snuck around to the tree, looking it over as she tore off her sandals and felt the grass under her bare feet. People had been climbing it for as long as she'd been the High Inquisitor, perhaps even longer. Its branches extended over the wall, making it an opportune spot for young men to sneak out… or young ladies to sneak in. It was one of the things the town leaders turned a blind eye towards, the same as staying out all night on the Bonfire Festival or secret trysts in the countryside barns. _Just kids having fun_ , everyone said. _They'll always do it, no sense in stopping them. It's not like we didn't do the same things at that age…._

She found a good purchase and swung herself up into the tree. Her skirts slid past her thighs and she gave a prayer of gratitude that no one was around to see as she shimmied up the tree. Getting onto the heaviest branch to cross the wall was a bit tricky, and she could see how the girl had slipped and fallen. Just looking down had her clutching the trunk for dear life, but she took a deep breath and reached up to find a handhold on the branches above her. The gnarled branches cut into her arches and thorny bits of twig poked at her hands, but she took a deep breath and began to make the crossing. She paused whenever she felt her balance slipping or the branch bending too far beneath her weight, hoping that it would at least hold out until she was over the moat before breaking.

It didn't break, however, and after an agonizing eternity she found a place on the wall that was free of fallen leaves, where many pairs of bare feet and shoes had alighted before and after the same harrowing journey. She let her pounding heart still, adjusting the skirts back around her legs as she looked down from her new place of safety at the sudden drop. _You'd have to really love someone to do this._

 _W-wait, I don't… love him,_ she thought immediately afterwards. She scowled, rubbing a hand across her hair and upsetting the fern circlet. She ignored it, still angry for even thinking such a thing. _I meant often. You'd have to really love someone to do this_ _ **often**_ _._ Love was a big word, too scary to think about after only two dates and several clumsy kisses. _Not that they were bad._ She shook the thoughts from her head, looking around at the ground on the other side of the wall to see where she was.

It took only a moment to realize why this was a good spot to sneak over. It was behind the stables, out of sight from the main walk of the garrison. The walls were high, and while a proper fall from them wouldn't be life threatening or even causing major injury, the jump would be easily broken if she could propel herself forward enough to land in the horse's hay supply, which had been piled up between the wall and the back of the stable. She eyed the jump, swinging her arms before changing her plan and turning. She found a good handhold and propelled herself down the wall, extending her legs as far as she could with her feet still flat against the stone. For a moment she hung precariously, her arms straining with the effort, and then she used the wall to push herself backwards after taking another good look over her shoulder. The hay cushioned her and she fell deep within one of the piles, breaking it up as she pushed her way out of the hillock and tumbled down the side of the sweet-smelling stuff. She brushed the stiff strands from her dress and hair, shaking out her braid before kicking as much hay back into the pile as she could.

 _Well, I'm over it._ Now to find him. She started in the stable, peering through the open door to see several horses peering back. One nickered softly, their bodies moving at the sight of the stranger, but no human stood or sat in the shadowy darkness. She turned away and walked around the side, looking in all the windows: the abandoned barracks, the classroom where they still held mind training exercises, the padded room where they practiced throwing techniques.

She found no one, and began to cross the main yard to the carriage stables when she finally saw him sitting on the stairs to the Audience Room. His arms rested on his legs, his head down as he hunched over. She drew closer, watching him carefully. He didn't seem to hear her, but he was calmer: he only gave the occasional tremble, his hands limp as they hung over his knees, one tanned and one with darkening bruises where he'd busted them against the wall.

"Zacharias." She kept her voice soft, not wanting to startle him. She did anyway, his head jerking up before immediately turning away from her.

"Go away," he commanded hoarsely, trying to subtly wipe his eyes and failing. "Leave me alone." She gave him time to breathe, searching for the words she knew he needed to hear. Even more so, the words she knew she needed to say.

"Zacharias, I know that it's… that it feels so much _easier_ to do it this way. I _know_ ," she insisted, standing before him. "When you're alone, you can just shove all those emotions down until you can't feel them anymore, and you think that you can keep going on with your life." She felt a lump rise to her throat and swallowed, trying to stop her voice from cracking. "But you can't, you just _can't_. If you do that, you forget that you're not really alone. There are people who can help you, who care about you. People like me." She took a step towards him, afraid to lay a hand on him and yet yearning to do so. "And… now that I'm your—" she faltered, "your girlfriend, you have to let me know how I can help. I care about you, and—I _want_ to help, so… please. Allow me to."

"How did you even get in here," he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"The tree, same as everyone else." She took a seat next to him on the step. He shifted away, putting an inch or so of space between them.

"That was too dangerous. You shouldn't have done it."

"I know, but—"

"No buts! You shouldn't have done it!" He glared at her, and she glared back with all the sympathetic force she could muster. The expression fell after a moment and he buried his hands in his hair. "F-forgive me, I—I'm—"

"It's alright." She scooted closer, and this time he didn't move away.

"Maybe I am… just like…" he trailed off, looking at his hands with something akin to fright. _He's like a boy… a little boy afraid of his own shadow_. She felt another surge of protective feeling for him. _If I could just… pack him in a box or something._ Then nothing could get to him without going through her first. She didn't want him this way, as dark and hollow as he'd been the night in the forest, after his birthday party.

_The day of my birth was never a celebratory occasion before today._

_There have been many times in my life that I cursed it._

Eve sat and thought it over, trying to unravel the mystery. She could see that somehow, somewhere, this all tied together into the knot that was Zacharias Barnham. But there were still pieces hidden in the dark or missing altogether; try as she might, she couldn't see the larger picture.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." She paused. Maybe he did mean for her to go away. At least she tried, and she could wait outside the garrison until he emerged.

"Would you like me to go?" He said nothing, but when she moved to stand he grabbed her wrist with his injured hand, wincing.

"No, please… stay." She sat back down, allowing the quiet to grow. Sometimes, presence was enough. "T…" he stopped.

"What is it? You can tell me."

"They all were afraid of me. Everyone in town was… is…." He buried his face in his hands.

"They weren't afraid," she insisted, leaning her leg against his. "They're just worried about you. Espella, Mrs. Eclaire… _I_ was worried about you."

"You shouldn't be. I'm not… don't waste your time worrying about someone like me." He rubbed at a frayed spot on his jeans. "I'm always fine."

"Are you?"

"Mmn… a knight has only to serve and protect. Personal feelings get in the way and cloud judgment. That's why there's no place for them on the battlefield. And this… this is my battlefield. So I will feel no emotion. I will be fine."

"Zacharias… it's not wrong to be angry or—or scared—"

"I'm not scared!" The look in his eyes told a different story. "I'm _not_!" he snarled, and she could almost see him bristling the same way Constantine did when the pup got defensive.

"Well I am." His eyes widened, the panic flooding back in.

"Don't be frightened of me, Eve!" he pleaded. She was taken aback; she hadn't meant that he frightened her, only that she was frightened for him. He'd misconstrued it.

"That's not—"

"Eve, please—I'd never hurt you, I couldn't, I wouldn't." He began to breathe faster, leaning over her. "Don't be frightened of me; you don't hurt the people you care about, and I-I care about you more than myself, more t-than anyone else in town. I'd rather die than see you harmed, believe me, I—" he stammered uncontrollably, and she found herself clapping her hand over his mouth so that she could get a word in edgewise.

"I didn't mean that I'm scared of you. I'm scared _for_ you. I'm scared that—that you'll push yourself too far and hurt yourself… not me." She took her hand from his mouth, fingers brushing against his lips. Here, with just the two of them, she pressed even closer to him, winding her arm around his back and pressing her hand between his shoulder blades, feeling the tense muscles there. She rested her head against his shoulder, letting the warmth seep through his shirt and into her cheek. He let out a shuddering breath, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her flush to his chest, his face buried in the crook of her neck.

"Eve…" he moaned against her skin. It was a lonely sound, and she rubbed his back as she rested her chin on his shoulder and wound her other arm around his neck.

"It'll be alright," she promised, saying the words she'd wished someone had told her back when her father had first died, when she was at her most miserable. His body quaked beneath her touch, pressing his full weight down onto her. "It's fine. It'll be fine."

"I can't… I _can't_ —"

"You can. It'll be okay." She felt Espella's words bubble up within her, as if the girl was speaking through her somehow. "I'll be by your side every minute if you want me to." She squeezed him tighter. "I have faith in you."

"You don't understand, it—" he fell silent, burrowing his face deeper into her neck.

"It's okay," she repeated. "You can tell me when you're ready. I might not understand, but does that mean I can't just be here, like I am now?" She looked at the sun shining through his hair, the reds breaking into different shades within the strands. "I'm sorry; I know I'm not the best at being comforting, but I don't want… I don't like to see you this way. I wish—please, let me know how I can help."

"This helps," he finally mumbled. "It helps." He pulled away, one hand leaving her to readjust the circlet on her head. "I shouldn't ask, but it—I just want—" He rested his forehead against hers. "Forgive me…." She tilted her head in invitation and he pressed his lips to hers gently. She'd never had a sorrowful kiss before, but that's what it was: slow, sad, lingering, healing in its own way. "You'd really go with me, if they force me?" he asked, the words tickling her mouth.

"I will." He kissed her again; the act this time was flavored with unspoken gratitude.

"I don't want to go back."

"Then don't. I'll stay here with you."

"You'll miss the Festival." She leaned over and brushed her lips across the skin of his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat.

"I don't care." She breathed in his scent, closing her eyes. "There's always another festival."

"That lawyer," he sighed. "Do you think he'll come looking for us?"

"Undoubtedly. But the Storyteller might persuade him to wait." He pulled her away gently, cupping her face and tilting it up to look into her eyes. His thumb ran along her cheek, catching at her skin.

"Eve, you—I've never, erm…" He stared at spot on her forehead. "I'm not the best at speaking of my emotions. Even though everyone claims that I wear my heart on my sleeve, most of the time they end up mistaken about my true feelings. But I just, I mean, since we're here alone right now…. I just wanted you to know that I've never felt this way about… well, anyone. Not ever."

"Me either—well, obviously," she muttered. It wasn't as though she'd even had any sort of romantic interest come calling before he made the effort.

"I mean it. I think that… I think that I'm falling for you." He took a quick breath. "And I don't know what to do about it."

"You think that I do?"

"No, that's not—I mean that 'tis just," he stammered, making a loud sound of frustration. "I'm sorry, everything I say sounds better in my mind. I can't get it to come out right." He looked away, scratching his chin. "'Tis only that I fear that there will come a time where I won't be able to control myself around you as I'm able to now."

"What?" He flushed.

"Um, that is… I want you."

"I-I don't understand." At least, she didn't _think_ that she did. Surely he didn't mean….

"I want you, as in I want us to… one day… rather, one time… well, no, more than once, really… I mean that I want you as in… staying-the-night sort of want." He hazarded a glance and paled. "Of course, not now! I mean, I know you're not ready and—f-forgive me, I should never have brought it up, I didn't mean to press you, it's not—" Again her hand clapped over his mouth, and he obediently fell silent. She waited a moment before removing it and allowing him to continue. "It's just that… when you said 'as your girlfriend', I realized it was the first time you used that term. It made me… I liked it. The thought of it, I mean. That you're mine—my girlfriend, that is." He coughed. "I'm not overly-possessive, I promise."

"It's a little childish, isn't it?" she mumbled. "We're both well into our twenties. Boyfriend and girlfriend are _playground_ terms, rather than for adults."

"I don't see the problem with it," he replied sensibly. "What else could I call you? Partner?"

"We're not detectives," she complained. He laughed, and she smiled at the sound. So she could still make him laugh… good.

"Sweetheart?" he tried.

"Eww." He leaned in, voice lowering to the husky tone he adopted the last few times he went about trying to coax a kiss from her.

" _Lover_?" She must have glared at him without even realizing it, as he backed away with another, slightly more nervous laugh. "I jest, I jest." He thought a moment more. "My darling? My love? My treasure?"

"Save it for the bards," she groaned, resting her fingers against her temple. " _Eve_ is fine for now." Still, as embarrassing and pointless a conversation it was, it seemed to be drawing him back into a better mood. She found it quite easy to live with a little discomfort, if he was at least laughing about it.

"My Eve. I like it."

" _Ugh_."


End file.
